


King of Thieves

by ekrolo2



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Dragon Ball, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Comedy of Errors, Crimes & Criminals, Crossover, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-01-24 04:59:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18564403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ekrolo2/pseuds/ekrolo2
Summary: Casterly Rock has never been taken by storm or siege. No castle in the Seven Kingdoms is larger, richer, or better defended. Until one night, in the hour of the wolf, someone finally does, sort of.





	1. The Great Theft

"My lord Tyrion!" A muffled voice called out to him from the other side of the door, piercing the blissfulness of his dreamless sleep and getting an annoyed groan in response. "My lord!"

"Go away..." Tyrion groggily shouted back, sounding surprisingly drunk even to his own ears despite not getting shit-faced the night before. The knocking did not stop. "I said, go away!"

"But my lord!" The muffled voice, already nervous became almost pleading, panicked even. "Your lord father has requested your immediate presence at the vaults!"

 _The vaults?_ Tyrion thought as his eyes burst open, the daze of sleep vanishing as though a cold bucket of water had been thrown on him.  _What could he want with me there?_

Encompassing most of his vision were words written on paper about dragons and hellish fire devouring the lands and he momentarily forgot what he'd been doing the night before.  _Oh right, The Princess and The Queen, or, The Blacks and The Greens - Being A History of the Causes, Origins, Battles, and Betrayals of that Most Tragic Bloodletting Known as the Dance of the Dragons. Atrocious tittle, captivating read.  
_

Lifting away from the book, Tyrion noted he hadn't slobbered over it in his sleep with approval, it was a rare and fragmented tale, not one to so callously ruin. Then waddled over to the door. Upon opening it, he noticed it was a guard asking for him, not merely a servant. The man, closer to a boy really, was one of unremarkable features, someone who could and probably did fade into the masses, an effect enhanced by the shining armor worn by all guards in, out and around the Rock.

Even the lads quivering lips and almost bulging, terrified eyes were nothing remarkable, he'd seen it on plenty of men to, unfortunately, cross his father's path when he was in a wrothful mood.

"As you can see, I have awoken. Now, what is this urgent business with my father and the vaults?"

He didn't answer immediately, instead, he took frightened, almost paranoid glances at both ends of the hallway before kneeling close enough to whisper. Tyrion turned his head to one side, feeling increasingly intrigued by all of this.

"S-someone has stolen from your family, my lord," He stammered. "S-ss-some one has broken into the vaults of Casterly Rock!"

If the news that woke him felt like a cold bucket of water, then Tyrion wondered if the shock which rippled through him must've been how it felt to be struck by one of the Clegane brothers. Blinking a few times and licking his suddenly dry lips, Tyrion said the only thing he could think of. "I beg your pardon, but... could you repeat that?"

"I know not the whole tale, my lord!" The man whispered back, straining to sound respectful with his increasing worry. "Only that my fellow guards stationed near the vaults were felled during the knight and then discovered this morning with the door of the vaults wide open!"

Another moment of silence passed as Tyrion took in this information. For a moment, he considered washing and getting dressed to properly meet his father but if what the guard said was true, and somehow, he felt like it very well could be, then his father might actually kill him as Tyrion has long known he wanted to for delaying his arrival any further.

Instead, with a deliberate slowness, he said: "I believe we should make haste to the vaults, my good fellow."

"Y-yes my lord!" The man bowed respectfully and did so, striding while Tyrion waddled through the vast hallways of Casterly Rock, vast being the appropriate word. To say it could take an age to get from one side to the other was a gross understatement, even his brother Jaime, a man of normal stature, called it the Rock's single flaw. This day, however, the traversal only seemed longer, probably due to his anticipation of finding out just what all of this thievery business was about.

His families wealth was well known across the world, not simply Westeros and Tyrion had no doubt every thief would become giddy at the chance of breaking into its vaults and securing his future of growing, fat, old and content somewhere far away from his father's wrath.

An amusing fantasy, one he was sure many a man had dreamed of during the prosperous reign of his father as Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, but a fantasy nonetheless. Besides being the greatest bounty any man could hope to rob, Casterly Rock was also one of, if not the, most impregnable fortress' ever built. Being carved into the side of a gargantuan stone hill, surrounded by water, and a height thrice that of the Wall with siege walls, watchtowers, and gates all manned by an army of men dwarfing that of many petty lords across the Seven Kingdoms will do that.

Yet according to this man, and the numerous others serving his family in the Rock from servant girls to other guards he could hear whispering before and after his approach all pointed to one, increasingly likely fact: Casterly Rock was breached, and not a soul knew it until the thief had already long since escaped.

It was not, however, the only strange thing to happen in the Westerlands recently. In all this confusion and anticipation, Tyrion almost slapped himself for foolishly forgetting the rest of what he'd heard of late. Firstly, of a massive, stone pillar suddenly appearing on the border between the lands of House Swyft and House Clegane some three weeks ago. It was several stories tall and when Lord Swyft's men were sent to investigate, they found it hollowed out from the inside, with stairs leading up to a section where a home might have once been.

Father and Tyrion both found it odd but nothing worth losing much sleep over. No, it was the other incident in Clegane's own lands mere days after this discovery. According to Clegane's own men, their lord liege had stopped one day at an inn to rest after a days-long hunt in the wilds.

In a lie so appalling Tyrion and his father both rolled their eyes at it, though father was far more subtle about it, Gregor Clegane had apparently arrived just in time to see a rogue of some sort trying to steal from the smallfolk, and thus, they engaged the man.

 _More likely it was the other way around,_ Tyrion thought then and now as he descended the final bit of stairs leading to the vaults. Though the man gave no description of the rogue, except pointing out how he was covered in thick, black robes from head to toe, what he did spoke volumes in Tyrion's mind. Apparently, this lone warrior, this nameless and faceless wanderer defeated The Mountain.

Not just defeated, but had apparently grabbed him mid sword swing and tossed him with such force, Clegane was thrown through the inn's wall and smashed against a nearby tree, which then proceeded to crash on top of him! Then, while the others were distracted, he leaped through the crack vanished into the woods, heading northward! Some even said he was accompanied by a strange cat of some sort.

Silence was the only answer this messenger received until his father very pointedly said he did not appreciate japes or mummery.

Thankfully, someone had enough good sense to give the man proof, from the House Clegane's own Maester in the form of a letter informing of the Mountain's condition. Though Tyrion was no healer, from the description provided by the Maester, Gregor Clegane was little more than a slobbering imbecile confined to his bed, inspiring images combining a shit-faced Robert Baratheon and his namesake, Jon Arryn's own clearly unwell son.

Father bade the man farewell then told one of his stewards to issue forth a reward for the capture of this Mountain Crusher: 500 silver stags alive, 400 dead. That was his way, if he could capture and bring this man to heel, he would gain a powerful soldier to use against his enemies. If not? An example to all those who defied House Lannister. Father would win either way.

That was what Tyrion thought then, now? After this? The ultimate insult one could throw at Casterly Rock and House Lannister? The theft of their legendary gold and their incredible fortress' reputation besmirched for all time? All under Lord Tywin's rule?

The anticipation of seeing this brazen assault only made the journey down to the vaults all the more aggravating, making him silently curse his stunted little body a hundred times over.

Though, even this burning interest was cooled considerably as they finally entered the vault hallway. How could it not? The sheer terror rolling off the men stationed there as he made his way to the scene of the crime was almost tangible in its intensity. When he actually stepped forth into the room with his father and uncle, Tyrion suppressed the urge to shiver.

Walking up slowly, Tyrion shared a glance and nod with his uncle Kevan, a more gentle sort to his father who usually smiled whenever they greeted one another. But his almost deathly pale face and grim look at Father's direction proved there would be none of that today.

Tyrion was about to speak when he froze in place. If this first news he'd heard of it was a bucket of water then the followup a Clegane fist to the skull, then this feeling of awe must've been what it was like to gaze from atop the Wall. Ten chests, ten chests amidst dozens with enough gold, silver, and copper in them to buy and sell several smaller houses were gone, as though vanishing in a puff of smoke.

Closer inspection revealed no sign of forced entry, not accounting for the knocked out guards who's heads would soon be getting intimately familiar with the spikes adorning the walls of Casterly Rock.  _Poor buggers, although,_ He glanced at his father and almost winced at the sight of his expression.  _They may not be wanting for company._

Yes, already news of this was spreading like wildfire amongst the servants and guards and would no doubt reach the ears of every man, woman, and child in the Realm, how could it not? Tywin Lannister, the most feared and respected man in the Kingdoms, who's keep was legendary for its impregnable qualities had been robbed right from under his nose with him being none the wiser. The sheer impossibility of, to whom it was done, alone made it something the family would most likely never hear the end of.

Already Tyrion could hear the japes.  _Someone finally impregnated the impregnable lioness, eh?! What's Tywin Lannister angry about? He'll make all the money back after a fortnight or two on the privy! That's what Tywin Lannister gets for not keeping his bowels in-che-  
_

"What do you make of this?" Father asked with a voice harder than the Rock's stones, his cold eyes never moving from the vault though Tyrion could practically feel his scrutinizing gaze regardless. Tyrion glanced at him, then back to the chests and instantly saw what his father no doubt immediately recognized.

"They knew which ones to pick," He whispered as the realization dawned on him. Contrary to what most people thought, Tywin Lannister did not simply hoard gold then toss it into an unruly pile.

No, everything, no matter its worth, was carefully placed into chests, all properly organized and written into the families financial books. There was not a single copper, stag or dragon merely brushed or tossed aside, all had its place, and Tywin Lannister knew all the places. Which made the sight of not one, not two, but ten chests worth of money missing amidst a usually organized collective send Tyrion's mind into a whirl unlike any he'd felt in a very, very long time.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Tyrion saw his father's cold gaze momentarily glimmer with something he thought might've been actual approval.  _Any more surprises like this and I'll need a barrel of wine this instant._

"They knew," Father repeated in a whisper of his own, then he turned around and snarled in such a way it would make actual lions proud: "THEY KNEW!"

Tyrion could hear the nearby guards almost recoil as if struck, he and uncle Kevan just exchanged glances and very slowly gulped. Kevan decided to take a chance. "But, Tywin," He began with a cooler voice. "How can that be? Only your financial books document where precisely everything is. Those documents are guarded more than anything in the Rock!"

"I am aware of this, Kevan," Father ground out, doing the best impersonation of Stannis Baratheon Tyrion had ever seen. "Yet no other explanation remains, only by seeing those records could one possibly know precisely which chest contained what to steal!"

Tyrion was well aware of how impossible that actually was, uncle Kevan wasn't japing when he said those were most carefully guarded things in the Rock, even more so than his fathers own bedchambers. To try even gazing at them without his permission, much less using them to steal from him... Well, you'd be better off calling Lyanna Stark a dragon cock loving whore in-front of Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon.

"No one is to leave this castle, I want every single man, woman and child interrogated as to the events of the past few weeks. If there is even a hint of treason-"

"Heads. Spikes. Walls." Tyrion's said matter of factly then almost shit himself when he received yet another approving glimmer in his father's eye.

"There is no other possibility Kevan," Father continued. "Ten chests, each specifically chosen with knowledge only I am fully privy to were carried out in the hour of the wolf from my vault, from MY CASTLE!"

Uncle Kevan visibly winced then recovered and gave a very curt nod, all but fleeing out of the room. Tyrion awkwardly looked about, wondering if it was a good time to excuse himself or not when his fathers gaze fell upon him. For a moment, he seemed not to know what to say to him before simply walking away, ordering: "You are coming with me."

Tyrion blinked a few times then waddled after him in a daze.

"You will assist me in searching through the records, I want to know every piece of gold, silver, and copper to have left this castle before midday. Am I understood?"

With a tone that brokered no argument, Tyrion answered the only thing he could. So mad were the event of this day that even the bloody stairs back up didn't bother him.  _Father well and truly fucked up the arse, giving me approving scowls and now something of actual worth to do? My good thieves, wherever you are, you were worth absolutely every single piece of gold._

* * *

**South of Casterly Rock**

"I told you we could pull it off."

"I never doubted you for a second, my lord!"

He gave his best friend a wry look. "Really? Because I distinctly remember you panicking about shapeshifting next to the old man."

"And for good reason! If you spent as much time around him as I did, you'd want to run the other way too!"

"Eh, don't worry about it, just imagine the look on his face right now and he won't be so scary."

His pal did so, scratching his chin with a furry paw before giggling. "You're right, it is pretty funny!"

"But seriously," He gave a friendly pat on the back. "You did good, Pu'ar."

"Well, it was your idea, Yamcha!"

"Which I wouldn't have pulled off without you! Now, how about you stop being modest and help me decide how to spend all this money we've got in the capsule, eh?"

"If what that nice man back in town said is true, Kings Landing seems like a good place as any, then again, Dorne sounds like it could be fun too!"

"I got it," He pulled out a single golden dragon out of his pocket, and grinned. "What do you say we flip Tywin's coin for it?"

Pu'ar grinned back. "You're on!"


	2. News Spreads

The booming laughter of King Robert Baratheon reverberated through his solar and no doubt much of the nearby hallways of the Red Keep, as it always did. It was a frequent and deceptively cheerful occurrence, one which marvelously hid the decline to whom it belonged. Not that it was difficult to see, it did not take a Master of Whispers to notice Robert's double chin growing quite impressively alongside his belly. Within a few years, dismounting a simple stead would constitute a terrible task for the man renowned for his prowess in war.

Yes, Robert, as expected, did not take well to the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion four years prior. Men of war rarely do when peace time comes, after all.

Still, Varys detected genuine mirth in this particular instance, the kind Robert only reserved for whenever he cackled during his drunken boasts of destroying Rhaeghar Targaryen at the Trident. Some men might think better than to so openly laugh at the misfortune of their good-fathers, particularly when that good-father was Tywin Lannister, a man known for his reputation of not tolerating laughter at House Lannister, though, Robert's reputation for boldness was also well known.

In truth, Varys himself tittered at this turn of events once his little birds sent word to him, once the sheer disbelief left him of course. To break in and steal from the castle of any Lord Paramount was a task of monumental skill and absolute audacity, but to rob from Tywin Lannister? One of the most ruthless and dangerous men in the Seven Kingdoms? To penetrate the defenses of Casterly Rock itself and make way with a dozen chests specifically chosen all within a single night,... Then there was the business with the Mountain and the odd spire which appeared in the Westerlands...

King Robert's laughter finally began to dissipate along with the almost rhythmic movements of his belly and double chin. With a final, almost guttural rumble, it concluded, leaving his Grace leaned against his chair, looking younger and more virulent than Varys had seen him since the Greyjoy Rebellion.

"Tywin Lannister's oversized, golden privy broken into," Robert shook his head, chuckling as he poured himself wine. Varys and the equally quiet Ser Barristan Selmy standing vigil to Varys' right observed him. It was most fortunate Ser Jaime was with Queen Cersei, somehow the Master of Whispers doubted he would take kindly to all of this. Though he also doubted Robert would resist the urge to gloat later. "Maybe now he'll stop acting so high and bloody mighty all the time!"

Robert drank the whole cup in mere moments. "Did you know Stannis and I once saw him when we were just children? Thought he was the thrice-damned king instead of Mad Aerys!"

He poured and drank down another cup, then burst into laughter all over again. "Gods! What a day! I've not felt this good since breaking those Greyjoy fuckers with my hammer!"

From the momentary glance, Varys exchanged with Ser Barristan, everyone present could agree with that. "Varys! I had my doubts about keeping you as Master of Whispers but I'll be damned to all Seven Hells if this isn't the most wondrous news you've brought me! I'll hold a tourney in your honor for this!"

"A most generous gesture, your Grace," Varys bowed his head, allowing Ser Barristan to speak the sensible thing with Jon Arryn absent. Not that it overly mattered, the Lord Hand would prevent Robert's folly regardless of Selmy's possible failure.

"Your Grace," The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard spoke carefully. "While it pleases me to see your spirits raised,... I doubt Lord Tywin would take well to such an event."

"Tywin Lannister'll be too busy taking his wrath out on every thief he can get his hands on! Besides, I'm putting his idiot grandson on the Iron Throne, I'll do as I damn well please!"

 _Woe to the Seven Kingdoms when that comes to pass._ Varys thought, undoing his bow and meeting the gaze of Robert. As an excited child would, he leaned forward, his eyes almost glinting with mischevious delight.

"Now Varys," He spoke with an anticipating grin. "Does Cersei know about this?"

When the Spider allowed his own lip to quirk upward, King Robert knew and laughed even louder and with more mirth than before, almost flinging his chair back when he all but pushed himself back into it. Yes, Cersei's reception to the news was most humorous, what with her long list of suitable useless or unsensible solutions and demands to solve the issue and secure more power for House Lannister. Only in her little world would Jaime Lannister being named Hand of the King somehow guarantee the capture of this group of thieves or restore the Mountain to fighting form.

Though, Varys imagined Robert's own reception to her demand of the Crown compensating her lord father's recent losses by paying back the debt it owed him would surpass it.

 _It was nice to feel liked while it lasted._ The Spider with a hint of sarcasm, already imagining Robert's mirth and approval of him evaporate.  _Still, it is of little consequence, unknown players have shaken the Realm and the Game, and one in my position simply cannot allow this._


	3. The New Lord

_Seven fucking hells._ Sandor Clegane thought for what must have been the thousandth time. His silent curse followed by an irritable growl and lip curl. Reaching for the wine skin at his belt, another growl came out upon inspecting it. Empty...Of all the bloody times...

Such was his mood these past few weeks. Ever since rumors began to fly of his brother Gregor. Of how some thief or rogue or sellsword or the Warrior made flesh threw the despised Mountain through a tavern and damn near killed him. Sandor, naturally, laughed at these rumors as did others at court... Until the raven arrived, from Tywin Lannister himself.

Gregor was alive but bed ridden. Permanently, if their Maester got it right. The Mountain would never ride again or do much of anything. That alone would've been enough to leave Sandor gawking at the letter like some runt seeing his first pair of teats. Lord Tywin commanding his return to the Westerlands, to take his family's keep as the new head of House Clegane almost made him shit himself.

The little bastard Joffrey and his mother were almost as pissed as Sandor, though, they showed it much more to the king. As if things couldn't get more backwards, he was glad for their... support. King's Landing was a pisshole viper's nest of arse lickers old and young but it wasn't Clegane Keep. Not even close.

Didn't do any good. Robert told them both to do as Tywin commanded and think twice before trying to squeal at him again. Sandor got good and shit faced that night and the next. Cursing everyone from the all Gods down to the bastard who almost took his revenge away.

On the third day, Sandor took his belongings, saddled his horse and left the Red Keep behind alone for good. So ended his time as sworn shield to Crown Prince Joffrey.  _Good riddance. Others take him and his mother._

On and on his foul mood persisted, growing fouler with each passing league. More than once he thought about telling all of Westeros to piss off, get on the first boat and sail for Essos. But no matter how appealing the idea was, especially when he got damned drunk, two things kept him moving forward. Back home.

Fear for one. Sandor knew Tywin Lannister before he was a man grown, when he entered his families service to escape his brothers takeover of Clegane's Keep. The Old Lion wasn't someone you wanted to make an enemy of.

Curiosity was the other reason. A hundred times he read the letter over, trying to imagine what Gregor was like now. Were his legs twisted? His back snapped? Arms bent in ways no limb should? Those thoughts put a smile on his face then and now.

They helped keep other thoughts at bay as well. Memories of him playing with his sister through these forests. Before Gregor did what he's best at: bring ruin down on any poor sod unlucky enough to be near him. In the distance, Sandor spotted Clegane's Keep. One of the most feared places in all of Westeros.

Another growl escaped his lips and he spurned his horse to move faster.  _Better to get this over with._

Around midday, he'd gotten close enough to get a good look at the keep for the first time in over a decade. Gray, ugly and looking ready to fall over if the battered tower edges and holes in the walls were anything to go by.

 _My seat._ Sandor scoffed.  _What an honor..._

With another spur, the horse neighed and went forward towards the village underneath the towerhouse. Small place, barely large enough for a hundred people. Though, with Gregor lording over the place for so long it was probably a miracle anyone was left alive.

They watched him ride through, young, old, men, women staring at him. Probably wondering what terror he'd unleash on them. Sandor ignored it, he'd gotten used to a long time ago. What he did pay heed to was the towerhouse looming over them all. Watching it stirred more memories he tried to ignore with a growl.

_This must be what it feels like to see the executioner's blade hanging over you..._

Ridding up the hill just behind the village, Sandor spotted the first guards. These men he did watch, Gregor's pet rats might be among them. The thought of greeting them made him smile for the first time in a while.

Finally, he'd reached the entrance to the towerhouse where more guards, servants and a man dressed in Maester's robes awaited him. The only one Sandor didn't scrutinize, not with ill intent anyway. Maester Bryen, fresh from the Citadel when Tytos Lannister, Tywin's father and former head of House Lannister, helped found House Clegane.

If there was anything he and Gregor ever agreed on, even in unspoken terms, it was never to hurt this man. He was the reason Sandor's face wasn't even more of a ruin and without him, Gregor's damned headaches would've been even less bearable without milk of the poppy.

Settling his horse a short walk away, Sandor dismounted, his eyes on Bryen while some stable boy ran up to take his horse. The Maester approached, his smile growing only fonder. Then, he bowed, along with the other gathered soldiers and servants.

"Welcome home, my lord," Bryen said, momentarily earning Sandor's ire until he rose again and evaporated it with a look of genuine gladness. "It has been quite a while, hasn't it?"

"Aye..." Sandor all but grunted out, noticing the gray hairs at the edges of his hair and beard. "Aye it has."

"I trust your journey was uneventful?"

"It was, can't say I was looking forward to it," Sandor eyed his... new seat with distaste. "Where is he?"

Bryen's smile faltered, his chain rattling as he nodded in-understanding. "Follow me."

More memories threatened to send Sandor into a feverish rage as he followed Bryen through the place. Simpler times of a boy and his sister playing at knights or hiding or running away from a Maester's lesson. He beat them all down. Gregor was his only concern, not the life of some stupid boy long dead.

With a grip on his sword that could crush a man's throat, Sandor felt himself growing angrier, more curious, even a little... afraid. He'd need a damn good drink once this was over.

"We've moved him to one of the guest bed chambers," Bryen explained why they weren't heading for the main one. "Though, I suspect you won't be using your brothers regardless."

"I'd sooner eat wildfire than sleep in his bed."

They halted in-front of a plain, wooden door which creaked like Pycelle's bones when Bryen opened it. The smell inside was foul enough to make Sandor wretch. Piss, shit and every other smell strong enough to kill a man. It was the stench of King's Landing trapped in a single room. All of it was coming from the drooling, giant of a man lying in a bed barely large enough for him.

 _Seven fucking hells..._ Sandor thought when he saw Gregor. The side of his head swollen, his eyes dull, staring at nothing and his mouth hanging open. Stepping closer, the sword grip loosened and loosened until Sandor's hand left it completely.

Hovering over him, he waved a hand in-front of Gregor's eyes to find...something there. But he just kept staring at nothing. Seeing the brother he'd wanted dead so long looking like a giant Robert Arryn left Sandor standing there, almost matching Gregor's own blank stare.

"He's been like this since they brought him to me," Bryen explained, covering his mouth and hand with cloth. "Even if the tree hadn't fallen on his head, the damage done to his legs alone would've left him bedridden."

"There's nothing to be done for him?" Sandor leaned closer, watching Gregor's face with scrutiny.

"Very little. All we can do is give him soft foods then try to clean him. But," He sighed. "With his size... It presents a great challenge to us."

Sandor grunted his acknowledgement, his eyes still searching for anything in this... Sack of breathing meat that was once feared by all but firstly by Sandor.

 _Nothing._ He realized or perhaps accepted at last.  _He's nothing at all..._

He didn't know how long they spent like that, one brother watching the other. The first time they'd been in the same room as one another in years without trying to kill each other. What stunned Sandor possibly more so than this was a complete desire for him to even **try**  killing Gregor.

Instead, Sandor moved away, a smile stretching across his face. "Maester, I want you to take very good care of my brother. For as long as possible. I don't care what it takes, you get it done. Understood?"

"Y-Yes my lord." He answered and for once, being called one of those didn't bother him neither. Gregor being trapped for years or mayhaps even decades in his own body was simply too good to be true.

_I changed my mind, if I ever met the bastard who turned you into this, I'll hold a fucking tourney in his honor._


	4. The Next Great Theft

"Ugh," Yamcha groaned out, shuffling about in his saddle to try and ease up the chaffing around his crotch. Ever since they broke into Casterly Rock weeks back, he and Pu'ar kept riding south. Their coin toss told them to head for a place called Dorne at the bottom of Westeros. Only problem was they didn't know much of anything about it, or most of this weird new world.

Asking folks around Lannisport or listening in on conversations could only tell them so much. It didn't help that for all the cash they swiped, neither one of them thought to steal one of Tywin's maps. Luckily, they did learn about Oldtown. From what the locals said was the best place for information, where all the geeks and nerds came for their books.

Lots of books meant just as much information. The choice to head for it was a no brainer.

They stole a horse, then spent a couple of days figuring out how to ride it. Damn thing kept tossing him off, even kicked Yamcha in the chest once. Eventually he figured it out and on they went. Good thing they did, because old man Tywin was pretty pissed off.

While the rode out of the Westerlands, patrols were everywhere. Dozens of armored goons running around, chasing after anyone who caught their eye for any reason. Pretty soon, they decided to avoid going into towns and sticking to the side roads or keeping off them all-together. On and on the trip went. After spending years in a desert, being around so much green was a nice change of pace. The heat was bearable for once too.

One problem was the horse, again. It was way too slow. After riding the real thing for a while, Yamcha and Pu'ar realized what folks meant about cars having lots of horse power. Because one wasn't worth much. More than once, he thought about firing up a capsule, getting one of his motorcycles out and ditching the horse. The other problem was fuel. They weren't sure if all this Westeros was living in the ye olden days but on the chance it was, it meant gas was gonna be scarce. Wasting it out of boredom might bite them in the ass later.

"Saddle still bugging you?" Pu'ar teased. He'd spent their trip south transformed as lots of things, sometimes a bird or ordinary cat. Right now, he changed into a big cloak covering Yamcha's back, giving him another pair of eyes for behind.

"You know it is..."

"Well don't worry, I'm sure we'll get there soon."

"We better, or else someone's goin' hungry tonight," Yamcha threatened and the prickly horse huffed. He'd heard of animals with attitude before but this was ridiculous. The ride lasted another hour, luckily time on Westeros seemed to work just like it did back on Earth. By the time the sun started setting over the horizon, turning the whole forest into a pretty shade of orange, Yamcha saw it off in the distance.

The Hightower. Oldtown's famous landmark, sticking out of the water like one of the wonders of this world, it probably was. Sure, it might not have looked as fancy or high-tech like a skyscraper back on Earth, but impressive anyhow. Pretty big by the looks of it too, if he could see it from so far away. Oldtown itself wasn't anything to sneeze at either. Hundreds of buildings littered the coast with dozens of ships still coming in or out of the place. Plenty of room to hide or escape in.

"Woah, so that's it," Pu'ar whispered, turning back to normal and hovering next to Yamcha's head. "It's so pretty, not in a tacky way like Tywin's castle either."

"You didn't seem to mind the gold when we swiped it from the vaults."

"Money looking nice is one thing, but anyone who makes a castle out of gold rocks has a real ego problem."

Pu'ar's bad masonry info aside, he was right. Oldtown didn't come off quite as problematic as the Rock did. That place was so damned huge it took ages to climb up it, even knowing where to go.

"Let's take a closer look, alright?"

"Sure!" With a poof, Pu'ar changed into a pair of hightech binoculars. Trying to keep the neighing horse from rocking too hard, Yamcha looked for a tell to the Citadel. A pair of weird looking cat statues he'd heard about. After about ten minutes of looking, he spotted them and couldn't resist smiling. It was time to find out what other goodies this Westeros place had around.

* * *

**Five Days Later, The Citadel**

_"For ten long centuries the direwolf and the falcon had fought and bled over three rocks, until one day the wolf awoke as from a dream and realized it was only stone between his teeth, whence he spat it out and walked away."_

These were the words Archmaester Perestan wrote down onto the pages of his years long work, one quickly nearing completion: A Consideration of History. A detailed account of the War Across the Water between the Arryn and Stark kings of the Vale and North respectively over the Three Sisters.

Among the longest of conflicts to face Westeros, spanning a thousand years of bloodshed only to conclude in the Starks growing bored. No grand defeat for one kingdom or overwhelming victory for another. A simple lack of interest. For this reason alone, the war always interested Perestan from his childhood and he wished for many a year to recount its events with the utmost detail.

Yet, even as Archmaester, his duties kept him quite busy during the day. Leaving him naught but the privacy of night, dimly light hallways and strained eyes to complete his greatest work.

Dipping the quill, Perestan ignored the straining at the base of his spine and attempted to proceed forward when a... shadow followed by the sound of flapping wings passed near the closest torch. He only caught glimpse, but from the shape and sound, it resembled a bat. Creatures known to attempt living within the Citadel and a nuisance whose presence he would most certainly make known in the following days meeting.

His duty, however, was not to pursue the creature. So long as it troubled him not. Yet it did, for he heard more strange noises from the shelves behind him. Strange for they were the sound of paper being pushed out, scrapping against the wood.

Leaving his quill and work, Perestan rose from his seat with a deliberate slowness and walked towards the source of this continuing noise. It was most assuredly a novice or acolyte of some sort, no doubt trying to steal something from these hallowed halls. He could tell from the fact this person wasn't even attempting to use a torch in their search, just as Perestan himself. Obviously proving they knew where and what to look for.

Quietly, he inched closer and closer, not wanting to give the culprit any clue of his own whereabouts. A torch was within reach and with great care, he slid it off the wall. Should the thief attempt escape, Perestan would make sure to identify them at the very least.

Then, with a swift motion, he turned the corner and pointed the light forward. "Halt, thief!"

A woman's squeal, followed by the flapping of wings and the thud of a book falling onto the stone floor was the only answer he received. Yet... There was no one... Walking forward, Perestan's torch revealed more of the ground where a stack of tomes was placed. Ten or so, and upon a closer inspection pertained to geography, history not only of Westeros but Essos and the lands beyond.

Before he could attempt to track down the thief or make sense of this at all, another shadow appeared at the edge of his torchlight. Even from there, Perestan saw something was horribly amiss and his suspicions were proven right when the... creature walked closer.

Towering at least six heads over him it was a disgusting spawn of man and bull with a horned, red-eyed face. Black fur stretched across its entire body and hooved feet pressed against the stone floor. Each step it took shook the very ground until the frozen Perestan stumbled and fell. Yet, no matter how much he wanted to flee or scream, his body would not listen.

"Human," Its impossibly deep voice seemed to echo from the most yawning pits of the Seven Hells. "You dare disturb my looting? Flee! Flee for you dear life! While I still have mercy to spare!"

Perestan's dry lips trembled, his own voice failing him... along with his bladder. The unmistakable smell must have been foul, for even this... monstrosity, this grotesque violation of fundamental nature itself reeled in-disgust.

"I SAID FLEE!" It roared, swinging its powerful arms to the nearest shelf, shattering it into a thousand pieces. At long last, Perestan's body did as he wished and with slippery, frantic steps forced him back to his feet and away from the beast.

Past the thumping of his own heart and the sounds of his steps banging against the stones, Perestan once again heard a feminine voice speak.

"Aw man, I really screwed up this time..."

He dared not question it, only flee, flee and hope someone, anyone believed him when the morning came...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not a Yamcha & Pu'ar thing without a screw up of some kind. Hence the small retcon of them stealing the gold but not even taking a proper map of Westeros. Can't have these two idiots get too competent.


	5. The Last Great Theft of Westeros I

"Peaceful, ain't it?"

"Enjoy it while it lasts," The guard spat over the walls. "World's gone bloody mad I tells you."

"Oh get off it, you still hung over 'bout them rumors?"

"Ain't no rumors! A beast attacked the Citadel! Made one of them Maesters piss 'imself!"

"Was no beast! Just some thief a mad old fool got a bad look at is all!"

The two of them kept walking their patrol towards the rookery. Every clank from their steel boots giving Yamcha more than a good enough idea of how close they were. With a deep breath, he tried to let some major frustration for one of them go. The bastard's spit hit him right in the eye and it took all the willpower he had not to scream, climb up there and wring his neck.

Instead, Yamcha pulled his left hand out of the rocks, wiped the spit away and continued the climb. Luckily it was a small one. Compared to Castlery Rock where it took a lot of his strength and Pu'ar changing into some climbing equipment, the rocks separating the shore from the Red Keep were a piece of cake.

With barely any effort, Yamcha quickly and quietly scaled the last of the rocks. Once they were behind him, all it took was a single big jump to send him over the edges of the walls and into castle perimeter. With the patrol gap, he stopped for a second to take the place in.

It was no Casterly Rock or even the Citadel but even in the nighttime where so much of it was covered up, Yamcha was impressed by the place keeping all of Westeros spinning. After all, actual dragon kings made it!

After swiping the books and getting away from Oldtown when the whole place went berserk, they found a nice cozy cave to hide out in. Once there, Pu'ar pretty much jumped right into those tomes big enough to kill a man. Yamcha never cared much for that stuff so he let the guy who actually went to school sort that out.

Oh, but when his pal told him about dragon kings, Yamcha started caring a whole lot.

"Dragons," He repeated, staring at the pictures showing the history of the old Westeros kings: The Targaryen's. Men and women who took over basically half the world, at least the half they knew about with giant fire breathing monsters. Monsters whose fire made a huge throne made out of their enemies melted swords.

"We should totally steal it," Yamcha said, tapping the artwork showing this Iron Throne. Sure, Pu'ar told him about other prizes, like magic swords and even dragon bones but this? The chair everyone kept talking about? That'd be one helluva way to ditch Westeros for someplace a little less hot right now.

Instead of agreeing with him, though, Pu'ar looked shocked by the idea. "N-No, sir! We can't!"

"Huh? Whadda ya mean? It's perfect for us! Just imagine the looks on these rich snobs faces when they find out the chairs gone!"

"T-That's actually what I'm worried about..."

Yamcha raised an eyebrow at him. Pu'ar sighed, tapping his paws together. "You see, from what I understand, this Iron Throne is more than just a chair. It's the symbol of unity for Westeros, especially when the dragons died out. Losing it could cause lots of problems here. I'm talking war all over the place."

"They'd really go to war over a chair?"

"You haven't been reading about these people," Pu'ar actually chided him. "They take this stuff really seriously. Ideas like honor or symbols like the Iron Throne matter to them. They've fought and killed a million times over it. Even pettier stuff too."

It wasn't like Pu'ar to usually worry about this stuff. They'd robbed lots of folks blind back home in the desert, their welfare be damned. So long as they came out alright, everything was fine.

 _Although, if he's thinkin' about this stuff..._ Yamcha rubbed his chin. "You sure you're not gettin' nervous over nothing again?"

Pu'ar looked him dead in the eye when he answered with a firm. "No."

After that, Yamcha didn't bring up the idea of swiping the chair but he did want something from King's Landing. The dragon bones sounded cool until he something else caught his eye. Something every king and queen would have. Crowns. Pu'ar didn't make a fuss outta those. They'd get mad over losing those but it wouldn't break the country.

The day after, they rode for King's Landing, taking them through pretty green fields of the Reach where they stopped at a couple of inns and got some nice grub. This memory of places smelling like expensive perfumes kept both of them sane once they got to their next target.

Even from a distance, the city smiled like a cats run over corpse stuffed with rat crap. At least Pu'ar could transform himself into stuff without a nose: Yamcha wasn't so lucky. Didn't help he stepped into something... green looking after parking the horse in front of an inn.

"Euch," He groaned, staring at the boot to figure out what exactly it was. Just a sniff almost made him keel over and bang his head against a nearby wall. "What the hell is wrong with this town?"

Ignoring Pu'ar's giggle, now disguised as a pouch around his belt, Yamcha went in and got them a room. From inside it, they planned everything out. Thanks to the Maester's books with maps they knew exactly how the city and more importantly the Red Keep looked. That immediately made it easier for Pu'ar who, just like with Casterly Rock and the Citadel, flew into the place in the shape of a fly and inspected it day in, day out.

Not to just sit on his butt, Yamcha did some recon of his own. Getting a feel for the place by walking around, listening to folks. Apparently, the city and palace guard got a boost recently after their heists. Everyone was jumpy over those, even lots of sellers in the markets were looking around like paranoid maniacs.

He visited the town docks at night too, looking for a nice little boat someone would miss but wouldn't make a big fuss if it disappeared. Once he found it, big enough for two or three people, he capsuled it away.

After a couple of weeks of this, Pu'ar had a pretty good idea of where everyone and everything was.

"The king spends of the time in his room or solar in Maegor's holdfast," Pu'ar pointing his paw at the map. "He's kinda gross, all he does is eat, drink or... pick up girls there. When he's not shouting at everyone."

The girls part made Yamcha gulp. "Does he do it at night too?"

"A couple of times but he usually burns himself out by then. He snores like an ox."

"Anyone we should worry about?"

"He's always got guards with him, the queen too. They're called Kingsguard, the best fighters in all the Seven Kingdoms. I dunno a lot about that stuff but Barristan Selmy and Jaime Lannister are the strongest ones. I watched them fight in the training yard, they kicked everyone's butt."

"Isn't the king supposed to be a tough guy too?"

"That's what the books said but," Pu'ar wrinkled his nose. "He looks like a big tub of lard to me."

On they went, running down more important people. The Small Council members, the rest of the royal family, the regular guard patrols, the maids and janitors... Until they got to the most important thing: the crowns. Robert's would be easy enough, it basically never left his solar, not unless Robert held court that day but his advisor Jon Arryn usually did that instead.

Cersei Lannister's crown was in her room. Apparently, she was the most drop-dead gorgeous woman in all of Westeros. Pu'ar would take care of her for... obvious reasons.

Once they worked at all the angles, it was time to move. The afternoon before the heist, they paid the in-keeper and left town, finding a nice spot in the forests opposite the Red Keep. There, they left the horse and waited until night fell. Once it was good and dark, Yamcha changed into some sneaking clothes, brought out the boat and started rowing. Pu'ar changed into a bat and flew ahead. If everything went according to plan, they'd get out before anyone saw them.

 _Eye spit aside, so far, so good._ Yamcha smirked under the cloth covering up all his face as he went over the walls. There was another, smaller set still waiting for him around Maegor's Holdfast with the final defense being the moat.

Before the patrol came back, he was already climbing down, landing with a soft thud and crouching. There was a small garden area around him but with the torches, clanking armor and just all around stronger and faster than anyone else, Yamcha crossed it with no problems.

Once at the base of the moat walls, Yamcha stopped and listened to the clanking of more boots. He checked behind for anyone else then lowered himself into a crouching position and jumped into the air. After curling into a ball and spinning twice, he landed softly.

Now, the only thing standing between him and Maegor's was the gargantuan, empty moat. Without Pu'ar, he'd resort to climbing down it then all the way back up. There wasn't nearly enough room for a good running head start. But Pu'ar was there and just like they planned, helped him out.

Shapeshifting again, Pu'ars bat body almost completely changed. The wings were still there but the rest of him was flat and wide - making him look like a giant, flying tile in the sky. Checking both sides of the walls, Yamcha saw no guard nearby and made the next jump.

He landed on top of Pu'ar who buckled a little under his weight, swaying right and left. "H-Hold still!"

"I'm trying!"

Feeling like he might lose his balance, Yamcha swayed along with Pu'ar until he tilted closest to the wall until taking another leap. On the way there, practically flying through the air, he pulled his right arm back and drove his fingers right through into the rocks.

Sliding down a bit, Yamcha rammed his other hand's fingers into it too, giving him a good hold. A few of the pebbles fell and thumped all the way below. But if he barely heard it, then the other guards wouldn't either.

Turning around, he nodded at Pu'ar who shifted back into a bat then left him for the other side of the castle where the queen's bedroom was. Apparently, she and the king didn't get along much. That suited him just fine, trying to steal from a gorgeous woman would've just made the whole job way harder.

* * *

 _Come on Pu'ar... Just a little further... Just a little further..._ He repeated this like a mantra on the flight over to Cersei's room. To ignore the pain in his arms or wings in this case and or in the back from being a footstool.  _I'm so gonna try exercising between heists after this..._

Luckily, the evening air was cool and with no nose, he could enjoy it without the smell making him dizzy. It helped none of the guards could possibly know the bat flying around was about to steal from their queen. Back home, big important places had security systems built to sniff out shapeshifters. But here? The closest thing to a specialized surveillance camera was a half-sleep guard and his torch.

That's why Pu'ar liked Westeros. Not only was it like going back to Earth's past and experiencing how people lived back then but it was more or less a cakewalk to rip off.  _I can't wait to see what Essos has!_

But that would have to wait, first, they had to finish their masterpiece here. Once he spotted Cersei's room, he shifted over into a barely noticeable fly. It took a second to adjust to the new perspective, how everything suddenly got so, so much bigger but shapeshifting school taught him well about sensory adaptation in all its forms.

Unfortunately, once Pu'ar flew right on in there, he noticed nobody was there.  _B-But how? She always comes here at this hour!_

Already feeling a rush of nervous sweat, Pu'ar couldn't do anything but lie at the edge of the window to figure out what he should do next.  _Should I go look for her? Oh but this place is so huge! Even knowing where stuff is there are still too many places to look! Maybe go back to Yamcha and tell him just to take the kings crown or-_

The doors to the room suddenly flung open so fast Pu'ar had to fight back the dumb urge to run for cover as Cersei would notice him. His relief on seeing her there, the crown still on didn't last long. She wasn't alone.

"At long last, this accursed day is over with," She sighed, practically running for a small table on the opposite side of the room. Unsurprisingly, Cersei went right for the booze. "Damn Robert and his foolishness."

"Far be it from me to defend the human boar that is your dear husband, sister," Jaime Lannister swaggered, as he always did, into the room. "But I sympathize with his plight for once. Ever since the Greyjoy's defeat, it has become most boring around here."

"Then fight in tourney's, Robert certainly hosts enough," Cersei bit back, sipping her glass of wine. "Invading the Summer Islands at the behest of some foreign prince in-name-only is beyond folly."

Jaime smirked, as he always did, making Pu'ar wonder how his face didn't hurt from doing it so much. "A folly with a blessing you've not considered."

"Just imagine it, Robert, at the forefront of a great fleet, raising the spirits of the men with words of glory and battle..." He walked up to his sister while Cersei still kept her back to him. Even when his arms wrapped around her waist. "Only for the drunken fool to slip off the edge and sink to the bottom of the sea."

That got a smile out of Cersei. With a big gulp, she downed the rest of her glass and turned around, wrapping her arms around Jaime's neck. For some reason, looking at them made Pu'ar feel very, very uncomfortable. The whole scene looked like one of those dirty magazines Yamcha kept trying and failing to read before burning it.

"Sometimes, you speak wisely..."

Jaime leaned closer. "I prefer action to words, as you well know..."

It took absolutely every shred of Pu'ar's self-control to stop himself from screaming his head off when they kissed. No, not kissed, practically ate each other's faces in smooches.  _W-Why?! Why are they doing that?!_

Pu'ar kept screaming in his head, trying to fight back the vomit from practically exploding out of his mouth. They moved back to the bed, Cersei's clothes and the crown practically tossed away. Jaime, who was still in his armor, kept being fumbled with by his... sister.

Luckily for the heist and Pu'ar's sanity, there were these golden curtains around the bed to keep the morning sun out. Once the two of them basically disappeared behind them, he went for the crown. Changing back into a bat, Pu'ar snatched it off the floor and tried to ignore the moans coming from the bed when something else he wasn't expecting happened.

The palace bells started ringing... And men shouted something over and over again: "Intruder in the castle! INTRUDER IN THE CASTLE!"


	6. The Last Great Theft of Westeros II

_Come on. Come on! Where the hell is it?!_ Yamcha wanted to shout but knew better to. Doing something that stupid inside the kings solar would just make things more complicated than they were already turning out.

The crown was supposed to be there. Whether on the table or on the king's sleeping head. Taking just a few quiet steps to steal, maybe bonk the big guy's head if he woke up then meet back up with Pu'ar. At first, Yamcha thought it was there, just put somewhere like one of the drawers or chests.

He would've even been fine with taking Robert's warhammer - the one that ended the dragon kings but that was gone too.

_I shoulda known things were gonna turn out like this... Ever since that ass spit in my-_

A loud giggling noise stopped Yamcha dead in the middle of the room. It was a girl, definitely. But there was another one in a different voice and another, and then two or three more. But a man's voice almost drowned them out. A loud booming one.

That was when Yamcha's damned brain reminded him of something else Pu'ar said about the king: he liked bringing girls to his place at night.

 _Ho-ly crap!_ He almost shouted again, feeling the blood rush into his head. Like a chicken without a head, Yamcha just wildly walked around the middle of the room in circles, trying to think. It didn't work, not until their voices were just behind the door.

With a final look around the room, Yamcha noticed a balcony and went for it. By the time the door was practically smashed open, he was already hanging off the edge. With nighttime and a bunch of curtains near the balcony's entrance, there was no way they'd see his fingers.

He hoped none of the guards outside did either...

"Is that truly the warhammer that slew Rhaeghar Targaryen, your Grace?"

"Oh aye!" The king laughed like a megaphone was next to his mouth. "Broke the whoreson's jeweled breastplate! Every rib in his body too!"

They all laughed again and every time the girls giggled, Yamcha felt the blood rushing all over again. That wasn't the worst of it, though. His hands were getting really sweaty too.

"Why don't you show us what else your warhammer can do, your Grace!"

He boomed another laugh. "You're about to find out..."

 _Oh, God... Are they going to-_ When the first moans started, his brain completely shut down. Yamcha didn't feel his grip loosen, how he fell two stories or his back smash into and almost right through a horseless carriage. Instead, he just lied there, red-faced and mumbling something about mounds, lots of them.

"What in seven fucking hells is going on out there?!" Somewhere, really far away, the king's voice barely registered. More voiced joined it, some of them closer than others. Turning his head as best he could, Yamcha sort of, through the stars in his eyes, noticed people running around. Lots of mean looking people.

"Intruder in the castle! INTRUDER IN THE CASTLE!" One of them shouted while bells started going off all over the place. This broke Yamcha's maze a little, getting rid of the stars, at least. It wasn't until those armored men started running over to him with swords and spears that Yamcha's instincts finally kicked back in.

He tried to get up but couldn't budge.  _What the?!_ Checking his sides, Yamcha could see why: the lower half of his back and butt were jutting out the carriage bottom. His legs and upper body sticking out the top. The guards were closing in, they'd be on him soon.

After two more short, failed tries of getting himself out, he decided to try brute force instead. Raising his arms as much as possible, Yamcha took a deep, long breathe, focusing all his energies into the next blow.

"HHHHIIIYYYAAAA!" The shout carried over the whole courtyard before the sound of wood snapping overcame it. His fists broke the carriage into a dozen pieces, finally unlodging him. Just-in-time too, because a couple of spearmen got close enough to attack.

Crouching down, Yamcha jumped over them, making their spears hit the dirt instead. Before either of them could figure out what was going on, a sweeping kick to their heads sent them both rolling across the ground. There were more though, lots more and fighting them all wasn't what he was here for.

Turning his head around, Yamcha spotted a window to the first floor and grinned under his mask. While the other soldiers shouted at him to stop in the name of something or other, he was already taking a running start and soaring through the air again.

"By the light of the Seven!"

"Bloody sorcery!"

"Get 'im! Kill em now!"

They shouted while he grabbed hold of the window's edge and hoisted himself over it back into the castle. The hallway was empty for now.  _Alright, now, what the hell should I do? Pu'ar's definitely heard the ruckus by now, probably waitin' for me on the south tower._

Voices echoed through the halls from every direction. Some scared but most of them angry, lots of boot and armor clanking too. One sounded loudest of all, not surprisingly.

"Stay out of my thrice-damned way if I find him! Else Ilyn Payne'll have your heads!"

"Yes your Grace!"

 _He wants to get me himself...?_ Yamcha couldn't help but smile at that.  _Perfect._

Drawing himself to his full height, he took a long breath. "HEY! YOUR ROYAL FATASSNESS!" The shout bounced through the stone hallways. "YOU WANT ME? I'M WAITIN' FOR YA ON THE FIRST FLOOR!"

It worked like a charm. In just a few minutes, a big ol' crowd of guards were filling both hallway ends. Yamcha just leaned against the wall, checking his nails while they pointed a bunch of swords and spears at him.

Loud, thumping steps went off from the right side's back. "Outta my way!"

They did just that, shifting around just enough for Robert Baratheon, shirt halfway open and big gut sticking out standing there. He was red-faced, with a big hammer wrapped in his hands.

A couple of the Kingsguard were there too. One of them was older, probably the oldest man there. Barristan Selmy, a renowned hero of Westeros. The other one with a red beard and droopy eyes was probably Meryn Trant.

"Yo!" Yamcha waved, making almost everyone twitch. "Bout time you guys showed up, thought I was gonna die of old age standin' around here!"

"You dare address the king in such-"

"BE SILENT!" Robert boomed, giving Trant a glare mean enough to drop even Yamcha's smile a little. "I said he's mine or are you a halfwit?"

Trant shrank under his king's eyes, taking two steps back before giving Yamcha the stink eye treatment again. Robert glared at him too.

"You got more balls than brains coming here, thief."

"Hey, I resent that, it took a whole lotta time planin' this job!"

"That so?" Robert walked to the side, his fingers tightening then loosening around the warhammer. It would've looked intimidating if it wasn't for that gut bouncing up and down. "And what were you hoping to steal?"

"Well, I was gonna take the Iron Throne but startin' wars ain't really my style."

A thick silence fell over everyone. Not even a single clank broke it. They all stared at him wide-eyed, shocked and more than a little afraid. Even Robert looked like someone just took a dump in his wine glass.

"Although, I'll settle for that crown of yours."

Something about the casual way Yamcha said it must've ticked him off good. His face got even redder and a shout sounding like a tyrannosaurus rex's made Yamcha's ears buzz. Swinging that big warhammer of his, the fat king was faster than expected but not nearly fast enough.

With a couple of steps to the side, the hammer missed completely, hitting the floor instead. Yamcha pinned it there with the heel of his boot. Robert tried pulling it up but it didn't budge an inch. Not after the first, second or third time.

"Yoink!" With a quick swipe of his hand, Yamcha's fingers snatched the crown off of Robert's head. "Hey, this looks pretty nicAAAGGGGGGHHH!"

Inspecting the piece of bling, Yamcha didn't see Robert reel back and headbutt him in the nose. A loud yelp came out, getting a cheer from the soldiers.

"Ahh, you son of a..." He blinked back the tears, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in the middle of his face. Robert tried punching him next but it didn't work out so well.

Yamcha saw it coming and grabbed the fat king by the throat, hoisting him off the ground and giving him the meanest look he could. Which probably wasn't saying much with watery eyes and a mostly masked face.

"Just for that, I'm taking your hammer too!" Robert's eyes bulged and a pained scream came outta him when he got thrown into his two waiting Kingsguard. He knocked them and a whole bunch of other guards down.

While the rest were distracted, Yamcha grabbed his warhammer with his free hand and ran for the mostly downed group, jumping right over them.

"Get him!" Robert roared from the floor. "If he gets away with my hammer I'll kill you all myself!"

 _Yeah, good luck with that._ Yamcha raced full speed through the hallways and staircases of Maegor's Holdfast. His mind racing with images of the map Pu'ar drew of it for him on his way to the south tower where they were supposed to meet.

A few groups of guards spotted him but Yamcha just jumped over, dodges or barreled through all of them no problem. By the time he was right next to the south tower's entrance, there didn't seem to be anything left to try and stop him.

That was until he turned another corner and spotted a Kingsguard running towards him. From the looks of his unhelmeted face, Yamcha guessed it was Jaime Lannister, the infamous Kingslayer.

"Well, well," He grinned, unsheathing his sword in a fast, slick move. "And here I thought it'd gotten boring!"

With a flash, the sword came at Yamcha, looking like it was going for his left but twisting around, changing direction to his right. A helluva _move. It must mess a lot of guys up._

Yamcha barely had to move one arm Robert's hammer to block while the other, holding the crown, smacked Jaime in his smug looking face. It wasn't until he was running again that Yamcha spotted a little bit of blood on the crown's sharp ends.

 _Guess I hit him a little too hard..._  He shrugged and kicked the door down, showing a pretty big room in the south tower. More importantly one with a window. While he was still alone, he put the crown and hammer inside a capsule then snatched one torch off the wall.

He peeked his head and the torch outside the window. "PU'AR! IM OVER HERE! GO WITH PLAN B!"

Just to make sure his pal knew, Yamcha tossed the torch really high into the air. All that was left was to wait a while. More clanking noise came up from behind, along with angry shouting. After a couple of minutes, he got the pleasure of king Robert and Jaime's company again along with the other Kingsguard and more grunts.

"Oof," He pointed at the nasty cut running down Jaime's face. "Sorry about that, didn't mean to hit ya-"

"WHERE IS MY HAMMER?!" Robert shouted again, the loudest one so far, gripping a sword. "Hand it over or I'll send your worthless hide to Tywin Lannister!"

A loud flapping noise sounded from behind Yamcha. He smiled again. "Tempting offer but I got places to be, people to meet and more stuff to steal."

Jumping back, Yamcha went to the window, hanging one leg and arm out of it. Then he winked and flipped everyone off before jumping out.

A pterodactyl Pu'ar snatched him mid-fall, leaving the two thieves laughing off into the night and the nobility of Westeros completely stumped.


	7. News Spreads II

"Yes?" He asked Desmond through the door, his eyes lingering on the papers concerning a dispute between Houses Karstark and Umber.

"My lord, Maester Luwin begs an urgent audience with you. A raven has arrived from King's Landing, bearing the seal of the king."

_A letter? From Robert himself?_ Putting Greatjon's letter aside, Ned straightened in his chair. Already he wondered what reason could prompt such a message and misliked all of them. "Send him in."

The door creaked open and Luwin entered. Though many years were upon him, leaving his hair gray and skin wrinkled, his eyes saw much and his great knowledge served House Stark well beyond any possible praise. Now, a rare paleness was present across his face, the second Ned had seen on the man in weeks.

_Last time he seemed this troubled, ravens flew from the Citadel... After the theft there..._

"My lord," Luwin spoke when the door behind him closed. "If it is not too much trouble, might I sit?"

"Of course, do you require something to drink?"

"Oh, no, no," His left hand shook, rattling the great chain hanging around his neck. With deliberate slowness, he sat. "All I need is a moment."

Ned gave it to him, patiently allowing Luwin to produce the letter from the numerous pockets within the sleeves of his robe. "As Desmond said my lord, a letter from King Robert arrived this morning. It is a certainty many great houses have as well."

He eyed the letter as a man would a viper. "Has there been another Great Theft?"

Weeks past, the seat of House Lannister fell prey to what men thought impossible for thousands of years: a theft. Though Ned held a disdain for them, he would be a fool to think of Casterly Rock as anything but an impressive fortress. Taller than the Wall, shining in the sun, an impregnable place capable of repelling a hundred thousand men besieging it eternally.

For anyone to climb that high, discover the guard routes and paths to the Lannister treasures within, steal ten chests of gold and escape all within but one night and none the wiser... It was almost a tale from the Age of Heroes happening before the entire realm.

News spread faster than wildfire and every noble house, no matter their standing, prepared for if or when another such theft could happen. House Stark did the same, doubling the guards within their own vaults while Ned himself never let Ice too far from reach.

Though he admitted it only to Cat, Ned did find some joy in Tywin Lannister's misfortune.  _Such a man deserved a slight of this_   _magnitude._

The term "Great Thefts" would not become widespread until the Citadel suffered such a fate as well. Though the tale was many times stranger. Talk of beasts clawing from the shadows, robbing men of their knowledge and vanishing into nothingness reached the ears of high and low born folk alike.

Ned paid it no heed, at first. Until Luwin vouched for the source of this talk, a Maester Perestan with a known disdain for all talk of magic.

"Indeed it has, my lord and the implications are..." He shook his head, growing somehow paler.

Ned finally took the letter, readying himself for whatever was inside.  _Was Robert hurt? One of his children?_

Yet as he read it once, then twice then a third, final time, Ned realized his suspicions were more preferable to reality.

"Dragons..." He breathed out, the word almost dying on his lips. "This is..."

"I thought the same, my lord. I could not fathom the very idea and yet-"

"And yet the witnesses named cannot be questioned," Robert himself, Ser Barristan Selmy, Jaime Lannister, Ser Maryn Trant. "Gods be good..."

The letter revealed more. How this dragon riding thief assaulted the king himself, stole both the royal crowns and nearly stole the Iron Throne itself! Ned could feel Robert's wroth through every word, though he most certainly did not put ink to paper himself. The fact he was offering lands, titles, and gold to anyone who hunted this thief down spoke enough.

Yet it was the dragon which turned Ned's blood to ice, even in the warmness of his solar. "Robert will think this a Targaryen plot, some plot to subvert the legitimacy of his reign."

Ned knew the man who was his third brother in all but name or blood well. His wroth was a terrible thing to awaken and many died by inciting it.

_I see no babes. Only dragonspawn._ Robert's voice spoke in Ned's mind for the thousandth time. Even at his most peaceful days, they would spring to mind, a horrid reminder of something which nearly tore them apart for good. No doubt the Spider was already sending men to hunt down the last of House Targaryen...

"It would appear so at first glance my lord. King Robert and Tywin Lannister have both done great harm to House Targaryen. And yet..."

"And yet?"

"Why attack the Citadel? Why steal gold, books, and crowns? Surely if this assailant wished to truly spur chaos throughout the realm, why not assassinate Lord Tywin or someone of the Small Council?"

_Why not burn down King's Landing?_ Ned leaned back in his chair, feeling ill from the mere thought. Men, assassins, thieves and more he could prepare for. But dragons come again? What in all the Seven Kingdoms could possibly withstand such a force?

Yet he would defend his house and family regardless. Should this dragon rider come to Winterfell as thief or conqueror, the Starks would rise to meet him.


	8. Goodbye Westeros

Before the first rays of light pierced the bedchamber's blackness, Robert Baratheon's eye snapped open from a dreamless sleep. Casting the sheets aside, he sprang to his feet and quickly went about gathering everything necessary.

For the past fortnight, strict commands had been issued to the servants responsible for the chamber. Every night before he slept, clothes, water, and wine were to be laid out for Robert's convenience. The less time wasted dressing and cleaning himself was more left for other, more important matters.

Removing the last drowsiness of slumber with a splash of water to the face and a single glass of wine, he promptly went about dressing himself. A simple, red shirt, pair of breeches and leather boots. Placed nearest to the doors was the newly forged hammer. A fine weapon by any other measure but it could never replace what was lost.

The thought, as it did each morning, put Robert into a simmering rage. Flinging the hammer over his shoulder, he practically pushed the doors from their hinges and stomped down the halls. Ignoring the good mornings of those idiots Trant and Kettlebeck along with the servants and other assorted arselickers in his path, Robert made way his way to the yard.

A greeting he did stop to welcome was the cool morning air. His first training partner, one who never failed to keep him sharp by bitting into every inch. Robert responded in-kind with the first of many hammer swings to come. Each more forceful than the last.

Since he was strong enough to swing a hammer with ease, Robert didn't bother training with dummies. They broke too damn easily; the time spent replacing them over again wasn't worth it. Instead, he let his mind create the targets for him.

Often it was the raping bastard Rhaeghar having his breastplate caved in over again. Now, there was another. The man he could... thank for bringing him here at dawn every day. The arrogant, dragon riding cur already known as the King of Thieves.

Oh, his servants, guards and even Small Council members dared not say it in his presence but his newly restored sobriety came with quite a few benefits. Letting him see and hear where once he was too damned drunk to give a shit. It was incredible how stupidly and sloppily men and women alike gossiped. Fanciful tales were a never-ending ale keg, each more outlandish than the last.

_The dragon was larger than the Black Dread! The King of Thieves nearly slew a hundred scores of men and the king himself! He is a demon from another world!_

Robert knew there was only one demon in this world: the Demon of the Trident and he would bring him back. Already his strength returned, piece by agonizing piece. His arms, which ached well into the night, grew stronger each passing day. He could run a few moments longer. It took more and more swings to tire him out and his recovery from practice hastened. Robert even managed to see his own toes again!

His imagination aided greatly in this. Every blow seemed to result in more vivid, pleasing images of the cur's demise. Some of his teeth flying several feet in the air, others of Robert grounding his balls to dust.

By the time his strength began to wane, the true morning had arrived, banishing the cool air and bringing forth more men into the yard. With a grunt, Robert placed the hammer over his right shoulder and walked to the small council chamber. The perfect place to rest for a while and more importantly to hear news.

Not for the first time, Robert arrived before the others, settling himself in the chair at the head of the table. The hammer resting within arm's length. Jon Arryn, his Hand and foster father entered next, halting at the entrance.

"Robert," Jon said, still seemingly unable to grasp him being there. "I trust your training goes well?"

"Oh aye," Robert answered with a smile. "Haven't felt this good in years."

"So long as you understand the boundaries we've set, I'm most glad to hear that."

The smile turned into a lip curl.  _Oh, I remember my boundaries..._

One hour past the thief's escape, Robert summoned all of his small council here and Jon was the first to arrive. With but a glance, Jon already knew everything.

_"You cannot do it, Robert, think of the Realm!"_

_"Piss on the Realm! That bastard is a Targaryen dragon rider! I'll have his head on a spike and I'll bloody do it myself!"_

For another hour they argued, with most of the other small council members standing aside, save for Stannis. Then, Robert wanted nothing more than to live out his greatest dream since ascending to the throne: tossing it aside and heading out to crack skulls as a sellsword. A very particular skull this time.

If he didn't do it then, it would most likely never come to pass. Such was his fury and his prickly brother butting in didn't help matters. If the crown was still there, Robert would've tossed it to him out of spite.

Eventually, the reasoned him into staying. As king, his resources were far greater, much as he loathed to admit it, the cur escaped to parts unknown and trying to find him alone was folly.

Soon enough, the other small council members arrived. Stannis, looking dour as usual. Renly and Baelish, jesting with one another only crones could and lastly Varys, the one he most wanted to see.

"Varys," Robert growled before the Spider could even sit. "Where is he?"

"I must once again apologize, Your Grace," He bowed. "My little birds remain unable to find this... Master thief."

"Perhaps you should find better birds," Baelish smirked. "After all, how hard can it be to track down a dragon?"

"Given lord Varys' results thus far, a great deal it appears," Renly said, somehow managing to look smugger than Littlefinger.

"I fully admit to failing you, Your Grace," Varys rose, meeting Robert's eyes. "However, I also believe there is a simple explanation for the... ineffectiveness of my methods."

"Go on."

"As we all know from history, dragon riders could traverse vast distances, completing in a single flight what ships require days or weeks. I believe this thief has most assuredly fled to Essos where my birds are less... numerous."

Robert's fingers gripped the chair's arm.  _Where the other dragon spawn are..._

"Essos in is chaos," Stannis spoke next. "Renewed conflicts over the Disputed Lands have sprung up and the grey plague ravages Pentos. Dozens of ships meant for the Free Cities have changed course or remained in Blackwater Bay. Too many."

"Do we know where the Targaryen children are now, at least?" Jon asked.

"Last seen traveling from Norvos to Myr. From what I've learned, their resources are severely dwindling. I have it on good authority that Viserys Targaryen sold several pieces of his Houses own belongings. I would not be surprised if, by years end, he had naught left at all."

"Well, we can remove him as a suspect," Renly smiled wider. "If he was this master thief, I doubt he'd be living as a beggar still."

"The time between the... Great Thefts," Vary spoke the last words with care. "Would support the impossibility of him being a culprit. Even a dragon must rest. Word would've spread of the beast's existence well before he stole from Lord Tywin."

Loathe as Robert was to admit it, the Spider spoke true. It was no Targaryen who humiliated him weeks past. The eyes alone proved that much. Black as Robert's own hair. Not the violet of old Valyria. His skin, from what little one could see of it, was tan, almost resembling one of the Dornish. The way he spoke was unlike any other accent he or the others present had heard before.

 _But he rode a dragon..._ This fact superseded all others. Whoever this bugger was, they had Valyrian blood in them. That was certain. Yet, it could still not be Viserys: they'd all be dead already. Aerys' spawn lived to see the last years of his House as rulers of Westeros. With a dragon at his command, the Red Keep would've been burned to ash and everyone in it dead. The... Usurper's line snuffed out in a single night.

Which did nothing at all to narrow the search. Between Volantis and the other Free Cities, House Valeryon and many other places in and out of the Seven Kingdoms, there was much blood of Valyria left to spare...

"Keep looking Varys," Robert growled, fingers tapping against the hammer's handle now. He looked at the others. "And let my reward for the bastard's head never be far from the people's minds."

Lands, titles, twice the amount of gold stolen from old Tywin. More than enough to turn all of the Seven Kingdoms against this disappearing, lizard taming mongrel. Yet, a part of Robert hoped they all failed.

The thief wanted to steal that damned chair. If it crossed his minds once, it would again and Robert would very much like to show him the fruits of his training when not if, he returned. With the important part concluded, Robert rested a while longer while they prattled on about lesser matters. Barristan Selmy and the Kingslayer awaited him for the next round of practice...

* * *

"Guess it's a good thing we decided to ditch Westeros," Yamcha whispered to Pu'ar from inside their ship cabin. His hands going through one of the Citadel books they swiped. "Probably shoulda known they'd get antsy about a flying lizard..."

"I'm sorry..." His pal said, sounding like someone ran over his dog. "I messed up again, I just didn't know what else to turn into!"

"Eh, don't worry about it, by the time we come back there, they'll cool off. Besides," He couldn't resist smiling after finding the picture. "We've got something much more exciting t'think about..."

His finger tapped the illustration of a golden skull hanging over the flag of a giant, shiny army.


	9. Trouble at Sea

"... Kill me..."

"Is it still bothering you, Yamcha?"

"Yeah," He squirmed when another growling noise came from his stomach. " **That's**  why I'm askin' you to kill me..."

When it came to traveling, this new planet they were on seemed pretty eager to make him miserable. From his poor crotch feeling like sandpaper got rubbed over it riding that horse to seasickness, it was a good thing there weren't any more types of transportation around. Well, besides the ones they'd carried over.

After their overly public exit from King's Landing, Yamcha and Pu'ar hightailed it north toward Maidenpool. Unlike most of the other ports, it was close and accessible. During the crown heist planning, both of them knew things were going to heat up and leaving for a while would be smart.

"Dorne doesn't like Robert from what I hear," Pu'ar whispered in the middle of the night, pointing his paw at the most southern kingdom. "If he tried making ships block, they'd probably ignore him."

"Yeah but I've been skulking around the docks, listening t'folks. We go down there, we'll be sailing to Essos through the Stepstones. Lots of storms and pirates there. Travelin' from the Stormlands wouldn't do us any good either, Shipbreaker Bay doesn't exactly inspire confidence in me."

"White Harbor and Gulltown could work but," He rubbed his chin. "We'd have to travel an awful long way to get there. I read about the Neck, it's got big monster lizards and swamps there. The Vale's safer but unless we tried flying over water, it'd take us a while to ride through it to Gulltown. I dunno if I could even do it carrying you too."

"Can't stay at Blackwater Bay either. It's way too close to King's Landing and doesn't the king's brother control Dragonstone too?"

"Yeah, Lord Stannis," Pu'ar curled his lip. "A real sourpuss and super serious about his job. He'd definitely start checking ships close."

Yamcha leaned against the wall, staring at the map lit by the candle halfway melted down. When a drop of wax dropped onto the page, Pu'ar silently shrieked and flew over to get it off. The spot where it fell? The entrance to the Bay of Crabs, where you could sail out of Westeros from Maidenpool.

That same night, they picked their next target: The Golden Company. Like a little kid, Yamcha sat and listened to Pu'ar summarize their history.

"They're the kids of dragon kings too," Pu'ar whispered a bit louder. His face half covered by the shrinking candle fire. "But out of marriage, bastards I think they're called here. They took the name Blackfyre from one of those magic swords they've got lying around. The main family and their offshoot got into lots of wars over the years and the one who keeps being mentioned is Aegor Rivers, Bittersteel. He ran away to Essos and made the Golden Company who'd try helping the Blackfyre's take the Iron Throne. When he died, they melted his skull and carry it around into fights, along with all the other company's captains too. The last of the Blackyfre's was a guy with two heads, Maelys the Monstrous. One of the king's bodyguards, Barristan Selmy, killed him years ago on the Stepstones."

"And they never found the sword?"

"Nope, but if anyone knows where it is, it'd be the Golden Company."

 _Blackfyre eh,_ He smirked.  _Might as well take a dragon sword if the chair's a no go._

Once they were back on the run, the standard M.O. did its job pretty well. Staying away from the main roads, stopping every so often to scout out for any soldiers lumbering around and of course, listening in to what people were saying whenever they could afford to.

In a few days, they'd reached the town, one of the smallest they'd seen so far. Besides the pink walls protecting the place, it looked like a dime store medieval town you'd see in one of those cheap movies from back home. It didn't shine like Castlerly Rock, wow with its size like King's Landing or give off an impressive old feeling like Old Town.

 _So long as it gets us outta dodge, it'll do._  Yamcha thought as he rode in through the Fool's Gate after paying a toll. With Pu'ar changed into a cloak around his back, that gave them two pair of eyes and ears on both sides.

Folks were already yammering about them. How the Targaryens were back, the dragons too. How they were making the king and his allies pay by making fools of them. How this man, the King of Thieves, was just the first sign of some big comeback for Valyria not just here, but the whole world!

They tried really hard not to laugh their asses off from these stories. Especially Pu'ar, trying to explain why a piece of clothing was keeling over would probably raise a few eyebrows. On pure dumb luck, they'd parked the horse close to a tavern with no sign.

The Stinking Goose lived up to its name. Their house back in the Diablo Desert, a small hill hollowed out from the inside out, a literal giant rock was more homely. More spacious, less rotting wood and no smell to rival King's Landings. Thankfully it had two advantages. The lady working at it was grosser than the queen boning her own brother, a short, balding woman named Bessie.

Another was the clientele. Scoundrels, rogues, thieves, crooks, their people. More importantly, sailors too. Inside of an hour, they'd found a captain. Horen Nestah of Myr. Tall, dark-skinned, broad-shouldered, bald and middle-aged with a big smile and faster reflexes. Yamcha and Pu'ar both saw that when a couple of drunk idiots tried stirring trouble and get a couple of knives in the... private areas for it. Captain of the

"Never underestimate a good knife up close," He said, slowly wiping the blood from one. "So, my friend, how can I be of service to you?"

Yamcha blinked a couple of times, trying to repress the memories of knives going into places they shouldn't. "Well, I heard you talkin' about going back home on your ship, the _Sea Stallion_ , right?"

"Indeed it is," He confirmed with pride. "Spacious yet quick. She's served me well these past 20 years across the Narrow Sea."

"How much for a trip to Myr?"

Horen stopped for a second, glancing at Yamcha then going back to cleaning the knife. "Myr faces troubles, friend. Mercenaries of the land and sea already join for one city or another over the Disputed Lands."

Yamcha shrugged. "How much does that matter?"

He smiled again. "Very little, for the right price."

Next morning they were off and what a miserable start to the whole thing. Yamcha never knew he was seasick but for future reference, he would. The first two days sailing were spent either vomiting or barely sleeping. Pu'ar kept him alive during the nights, sneaking around the ship, getting him some water or making sure nobody tried stealing their stuff.

Once it passed, for a while anyway, Yamcha got to talking with Horen while doing some pushups to get some stiffness outta his system. Books were fine for getting the general lay of the land but to know what was going on at the moment, you had to go for people.

"This Myr, what's it like?"

"A marvel of the east," Horen grin couldn't be goofier. "Men say the Titan of Braavos is a wonder of the world or the Lone Bridge of Volantis. Yet, neither can compare to the majesty of Myr's walls. Tall, black as night and white as the moon all at once. Districts devoted to all things from garnets to sapphire to the finest wines. Miles upon miles of infinite possibility. What else can a man ask for?"

"Work," Yamcha switched to finger push-ups. "Lots of work."

"Myr is always on the lookout for good swords, you can be assured of that."

"Guess I got lucky then," He switched again, this time pushing his whole body up, leaving his fingers to keep him steady. "Been thinkin' of joining the Gold Company."

Horen didn't say anything, stopping a second to gawk at him exercising. "That..." He finally continued. "May prove a challenge, depending on how you fight."

"Whadda ya mean?"

"The Golden Company are not like other sellswords, they are a truly organized army. Not some rabble of cutthroats and fools, they are disciplined, dangerous and never break their contract. Ever. My brother, a prideful fool yet quick with a blade as well attempted to join them. But a water dancer has no business fighting amongst Andal exiles and the more than proved it by knocking out two of his teeth."

"Sounds like a buncha hardasses," Yamcha finished the hundredth push up by jumping with his fingers and landing deftly on his feet. "But, I think they'll make room fer me."

The seasickness came back a few days later, leaving him confined to the bed and on the cycle went. Every time he put something, anything in his stomach it acted up. The alternative was starving or trying to live for weeks on sea with nothing but wine. Thankfully, in about two or three days, they'd hit solid ground again. That thought, along with Pu'ar's good company and Horen occasionally showing up to talk with him made things just barely tolerable.

"Just try to rest," Pu'ar changed from a cup back to normal, floating over to Yamcha's side and offering him a glass of wine. "Once we land, you won't have to go near the ocean again for a while."

"Damn right I won't," He coughed, enjoying the grape-like taste. "Thanks, pal."

"Oh, don't worry about-"

A man's scream followed by a loud thump and crunching noise came from outside. Pu'ar and Yamcha both starred at the door, wondering what just happened when a bell rang across the whole ship.

"Pirates!" One of Horen's men shouted. "We're under attack! We're under atta-"

He went quiet too with another thump. Not that it mattered, from the shouting in, out and around the ship along with dozens of men running around, the message was pretty clear. There was gonna be a fight soon and unless Yamcha & Pu'ar wanted to sink to the bottom of the ocean, they'd have to get involved.

All while his stomach was twisting in angles it was never meant to.  _Maybe I'll get lucky and one of them'll snipe me too..._

"Yamcha!" One of Horen's men shouted, barging in with a sword. "Get off yer arse else they'll slit yer throat."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm comin'" Yamcha groaned. Pu'ar, who changed into a fly waited for him to leave before turning into a bigger version of himself, helping to speed up the grueling process of getting out of bed. Hovering under one arm, they'd almost got Yamcha back on his feet when the ship shook something fierce.

"They're here!"

"Kill em all!"

Those and a whole lot more shouts along with gurgles, sword swings and a bunch of other noises came from outside. Another pair of thumping footsteps came near the door and this time, the thing was kicked down by one of the pirates. A mean looking midget with a snarling look and golden teeth.

Unfortunately for him, Pu'ar was looking like a giant, floating blue cat. That stopped him long enough for Yamcha to bit back the bile in his mouth, grab the wine glass off the floor and smash it into the midgets face.

For a second, the pirate just stood there, shaking right and left before finally keeling over. His face bleeding all over the floor.

"One t'go..." Yamcha said. "Pu'ar... Take out their ship... I'll stay here..."

"Are you sure?" He asked with a shaky voice. "But what if you-"

"I'll manage, just pull the rug out from under em, alright?"

"... Okay..." With a nod, Pu'ar changed into a fly and buzzed away. Already, Yamcha felt a lot worse without his support. His whole body felt stiff again, just trying to walk straight made it feel like someone was slicing his insides up.

Doing his best to ignore the pain, one agonizing step at a time, Yamcha grabbed his sword and laboriously walked out onto the deck. The second his head peaked out, something flashed in front of his eyes and he thought it was a small miracle his reflexes worked enough to jerk away from the attack.

"Woah! Hey! C'mon!" He said, blocking a whole bunch of ax swings from a crazy looking wrinkly man with one eye missing. They were strong, fast and all over the place. It didn't help his stomach twisted in on itself again, making it almost impossible for Yamcha to even try spotting an opening.

Instead, he decided to wing it: by poking him in the eye. The pirate screamed bloody murder, staggering back and giving Yamcha enough of an opening to run him through the stomach.

Pushing him away, he finally walked onto the deck and saw just a mess of people hacking away at one another. Parts of the ship were on fire and somewhere in the center, Yamcha thought he saw Horen fighting. To his right, near the steps leading to the captain wheel, one of the pirates was trying to strangle a crewmate of Horen's. Yamcha, bitting back more bile, cut him across the back then smacked him away.

_This is goin' better than I thought-_

A shout louder than all the others put together rang, coming from the biggest, meanest looking bastard out of all them. Not quite as big as the Mountain, the hammer swinging muscleman was thwacking all over the place, hitting even his own guys. The one he really wanted was Horen, bleeding from above his left eye and just barely staying ahead of the swings.

Yamcha ground his teeth to fight back a sudden rush of dizziness. Gripping his sword, he knew exactly how to save the captain. It would probably just leave him totally vulnerable.  _God, please let em all fold if I pull this off..._

Just like with the one-eyed pirate from earlier, he didn't think, just acted. In a single motion, Yamcha pulled his sword arm back before swinging it forward, tossing it across the air. It spun around and around, making him feel even dizzier just looking at it.

But when he heard the big guy shout again in pain when it finally cut him in the throat, Yamcha felt fine for a second... Until he saw the sword just slashed him across the shoulder. Huffing same as a bull, the big guy looked across the deck and spotted Yamcha. He knew right away who threw it.

* * *

"Run, puny humans! Muahahahaha!" Pu'ar shouted in the form of what he thought the Ox-King must look like in the lower decks of the pirate ship. In this big, muscled body, he towered over pretty much all the crooks there by a good two heads.

With a giant roar, he managed to scare a whole lot of them off but not all of them. Out of fear, anger or some weird combo of the two, a good chunk still attacked. Not that it mattered, as he was now? Their weapons were useless. With almost lazy backhanded slaps, Pu'ar mowed them down easy enough. He saved the real firepower for the walls.

Ramming his fist through one, a cool rush of water suddenly burst into the ship.  _Good start, but I gotta do more._

With the arm still through the wall, Pu'ar made it about twice as big as the rest of his body. Expanding the hole and keeping him just proportionate enough with the rest of the body. Then, he smiled and ran forward, leading a whole wide line of gushing water behind him.

"Hey, this is fun!"

"Foul demon!" One of the pirates shouted, drawing two curved swords at him. "The Lord of Lights servant shall banish you into the darkest night from whence you were spawned!"

The crazy guy shrieked, spinning his swords in circles and semicircles that made Pu'ar's head spin. That was when a funny idea came to mind.  _This is gonna be fun._ He smiled, letting the pirate close the distance before transforming back into a fly and sending a whole lot more water to suddenly smash and sink the crazy guy.

* * *

"Hold still, little man!"

"Not a chance!"

Yamcha shouted, somehow, against all logic managed to not die. The dizziness in his eyes wasn't normal. Everything kept spinning in angles, circles, and ways no human brain could possibly begin to understand. It reminded him of the rare times Pu'ar and he got really hammered. Except a lot less fun.

But some of his martial arts trying kept him going. With his brain too fried by the motion sickness, he dodged on pure instinct. Jumping, rolling, tiptoeing, crawling out of the way of the second biggest hammer he'd ever seen. Yamcha even managed to make the big guy smash a few of his own guys to pieces... Maybe.

"I'll crush your balls and feed them to my parrot!" The big guy said with an overhead swing to the side. Yamcha ducked under it, smacked fast first into the floor then clawed away from the next swing that caved through the deck. "Craven motherAAAA!"

A knife flashed through the air then jammed into his right knee.  _Horen's knife!_

Another one got him in the side, close to his kidney but before Horen could more, the big guy pulled the knee one out and threw back. Once again on instinct, Yamcha's arm shot out, tossing his sword scabbard, intercepting the knife. He wasn't sure thanks to things doing a sudden 180, then 360, but the big guy might have looked kind of impressed by that.

It didn't stop him from smashing the hammer right into Yamcha's stomach. With a pain gasp, he landed somewhere. In the pit of his gut, a rush of vomit unlike any other during the whole trip came rushing like a pipe ready to burst. It splattered everywhere close to his head, spraying wood, crewmates, and pirates alike a horrible mish-mash of everything he'd eaten so far ground into something out of a man's worst nightmares.

It was also just what the doctor ordered. Blinking a couple of times, Yamcha just stopped to look and noticed nothing was spinning any more. His stomach hurt... But from pain, not cramps. Looking at his hands, he noticed the heaviness had left them.

_Everything's so... Clear all of a sudden._

A loud whipping noise through the air got his attention back, with a deft motion that left him just as bewildered as anyone managing to watch, Yamcha spun away from the hammer strike and sprang back to his feet.

"Holy crap..." He breathed out, smiling, bouncing in place. "I can't believe that worked! Hey! Thanks, big guy!"

His answer was just another mean snarl followed by a hammer swing. This time, Yamcha didn't just dodge. Rushing to the giant pirate, he wrapped his hands around the man's waist then grinned when he got hoisted in the air and suplexed so hard, half of him went right through the upper deck. Just his wildly swinging legs were left up.

The surrounding crewmates and pirates all stopped dead in their tracks, watching it go down with big eyes and bigger, gaping mouths. The really priceless reactions came from the crooks when they noticed their ship creak, break and start sinking into the ocean over... Nothing. Well, nothing as far as they knew.

"So, guys," Yamcha smiled, patting a couple of the closest pirates on the back. They shook so violently he thought they'd have heart attacks. "Still wanna fight?"


	10. Blackheart

Myles Toyne watched the revelry around him with measured approval. As far as the eye could see under the veil of night, spirits were naturally high after a great victory. The Golden Company, under the employ of Myr, met the mercenary forces of Tyrosh and Lys two days prior and once the usually fruitless negotiation formalities broke down, the battle was started and won that morning. Though the joint force was impressive in manpower, amounting to nearly 6000 men strong, numbers proved of little worth against the training and discipline of the Golden Company.

Even after near a century in Essos, none could match them in either field. For the Golden Company was no rabble of sellswords, theirs was the bond of exiled brothers. Men either born and practiced for war. Iron Shields, Brave Companions, and Maiden's Men expectedly fled the field when absolute victory seemed even an ounce unachievable. The Company of Cat and Windblown, foolishly hired by the joint Magister and Archon alliance, quickly began fighting one another until the threat of destruction forced them into a retreat. With the bulk of the army lost or turning craven, whatever remained was quickly dispatched.

Good men were lost, to be sure but it was a relatively easy victory and a fruitful one. Even in the torchlight burning throughout the entire camp, the spoils of war glinted, sparkled and shone in the celebrating men falling deeper and deeper into drink, song, and joy. Some found such displays of wealth unseemly, a number of them thinking the Golden Company jeweled fools, capable of only adorning themselves with trinkets.

Myles liked this perception, it made men foolish enough to underestimate them even after so many years of more than proving their mettle in the battlefields of Essos. The Blackheart knew the value of creating a certain image about oneself to lull, trick or frighten friend and foe alike. With another glance around celebration, primarily at the men he'd issued to keep the order once so as to ensure no fools killed one another in a drunken duel or burned the whole camp down, Myles made way for his tent.

Situated at the center of every camp, one could easily spot it from the ring of pikes surrounding it. Each one adorning the gilded skull of the previous Golden Company captain-generals. His own would, in due time but he hoped not. There was still much work left to be done.

"Evening Captain-General," Royland and Bryce both greeted him, looking sharp, well rested and ready for a long night of standing around.

 _Poor sods,_ Myles thought, remembering when he was a young but promising man in the brotherhood. _Still, one must learn the value of guard duty when everyone else is getting shit-faced._

"Evening lads," He greeted back. "Don't curse the Gods too much, there'll be ale left for you once your shift is done. I know from experience."

The younger men allowed themselves small smiles of relief as Myles walked past them. "But not a drop of it while you're on duty, of course."

"Of course sir!" They said in-unison as Myles pushed the golden cloth of the entrance aside. A small candle flame provided the only light within, illuminating the table and chest situated to the northern side of the tent. But a few steps inside, Toyne felt a very familiar, fine-tuned cold prickling sensation pass over him.

Before he could even think of reaching for the sword hanging over his right hand, something silent... moved through the tent, pressing cold steel against his throat. "Move or talk 'fore I say so and you're getting knifed, got it?"

Toyne did neither, the knife moved away by an inch. Outside, he heard thumping noises, like a hammer striking against steel followed by something dragged across the ground. It was Royland and Bryce, either asleep or dead left inside by some great, hulking black creature Toyne barely caught sight of from the corner of his eye before it vanished outside.

"Don't worry, your guys are alive," The knife wielder said in a slightly louder voice. It belonged to a very young man, he quickly discerned. "They're gonna have some pretty nasty headaches in the morning though. You too, if you do what I want."

"Y-You're him..." Myles spoke in a whisper. "The King of Thieves."

"How'd you figure that out?"

He snorted. "Who else could do what you have? Do you have any idea how many fools have died trying it? To steal from the brotherhood?"

"Good thing I'm not like those guys, cause I'm gonna get outta here."

"You don't have to keep me like this," Myles assured him. "I wish to speak with you plainly."

"You wanna talk normal to a guy breaking into your camp, beating up your men and who's gonna steal yer crap? Sorry if I find that hard to believe."

"It is the truth, master thief, your exploits are of great interest to me... and my associates. Ever since you brought that dragon to Westeros and upheaved all of the Seven Kingdoms."

Surprisingly, Myles did not receive a laugh from the youth but a barely concealed sigh. "Alright, listen, I don't know what you heard or what those morons saw but that ain't no dragon and I'm sure as hell NOT a dragon rider. Or one of those blonde weirdos either."

"You need not lie to protect yourself, not here. The Golden Company have ever been friends to the Blood of Valyria."

"Sure, that's why you tried kicking out all the Targs a bunch of times."

"Alliances change with the times, lad. Those who're once enemies become great friends as the circumstances require it."

"Yeah, that's real deep," The King of Thieves sounded thoroughly bored. "Now, how's about you say something I care about for a change and tell me where Blackfyre is?"

"That," Myles spoke again in a harsher voice. "Is something I won't tell you and I sure as the seven hells won't give up."

"Plenty of folks have told me that till I made them change their minds fast."

"It's fortunate I'm not like those men," Myles smiled grimly. "And you're a fool to think you can torture me inside my own camp."

"Oh, I don't need torture you," The thief shuffled through something sounding like coins clanking against one another. From the corner of his eye, Myles saw something in the youths free hand. A white-colored seed, twice the size of any Myles had ever seen. "Keep looking, old man."

Myles did so, watching the seed fly across the sky, strike against the chest and... causing it to vanish in a puff of smoke...

"Those little friends of mine gobble lots of bigger stuff up, shrinking them down so they can fit inside," Toyne heard a nasty satisfaction in the youth's voice. "Now, what do you think'll happen to a person who gets put inside one?"

"Do your worst, boy," Myles told him with utmost honesty. "I killed my first man before you were old enough to suckle your mother's teat. Death and I became familiar with one another long ago."

His captor said nothing for a handful of moments. Clearly, he didn't expect that for an answer. The silence was broken only by the small flicking of the candle and the sound of flapping wings outside. Until the knife flashed from Toyne's view and a hard blow struck him from behind. A sharp pain burst forth from his neck, covering his eyes in black spots and sending him hurtling toward the ground. As he fell, Myles attempted to and failed at keeping himself awake. The last thing he would remember from that day was the King of Thieve's words in the dark.

"I knew we should've just gone after that space sword."

* * *


End file.
